In the days after the meeting, the special committee worked without rest, every record, every communication, every shipment log dragged into the light and dissected piece by piece, and what began as a search for an external enemy slowly twisted into something far more dangerous—proof that the empire had been breached not from outside, but from within.
Alan stood alone in his office at Fansilia, the massive viewport behind him displaying the orbit of Terria, calm and untouched, a cruel contrast to the chaos brewing beneath its surface, his hands rested behind his back as multiple holographic screens hovered in front of him, each one filled with data streams, intercepted transmissions, shipping routes, personnel logs, and among them one file remained pinned at the center—the unlogged transport vessel that had departed from Batuzane two days before the attack.
"Run it again," Alan said calmly.
A technician standing behind him nodded, his fingers moving rapidly across a console as the ship's trajectory replayed itself in light, the vessel departing Batuzane, drifting just beyond standard patrol range, then… disappearing, no leap signature, no registered docking, nothing—only to reappear hours later, returning as if nothing had happened.
"It never left orbit," the technician said quietly, almost afraid of the conclusion forming in his own mind.
Alan's eyes narrowed slightly. "No… it left the grid."
The room fell silent.
That single sentence shifted everything.
The ship had not simply vanished—it had been deliberately removed from Terrian tracking systems, meaning someone with high-level clearance had erased its presence entirely, someone who understood the catacomb network, someone who knew exactly where to strike and how to avoid detection.
Alan moved his hand slightly, and the display shifted, bringing up the crew manifest of the vessel, a skeleton crew as reported—barely enough to operate the ship, names that meant nothing at first glance, low-ranking personnel, easily overlooked, easily replaced.
"Cross-reference them," Alan ordered. "Family ties, financial activity, recent movements."
Minutes passed, the kind that stretched long under pressure, until the results began to populate, one by one, threads forming between individuals who should have had no connection, shared accounts, sudden wealth, quiet transfers, and then one name appeared again… and again… and again.
The technician swallowed. "Sir… there's a pattern."
Alan didn't respond. He was already seeing it.
Every single one of those crew members had, at some point, been reassigned under the authority of a single noble house. Not recently, not obviously, but carefully, over time, scattered across different sectors, buried deep enough to avoid suspicion.
Alan stepped closer to the display, his gaze locking onto the name that now hovered at the center of the web.
Trevor Mosioh.
For a moment, nothing moved.
Then Alan smiled.
Not with amusement. Not with satisfaction. But with the cold recognition of a puzzle finally solved.
"Of course…" he murmured.
The arrogance, the hostility during the council, the way Trevor had pushed questions toward Youri and Leonora—not to uncover truth, but to redirect attention, to plant doubt, to create a narrative before the investigation had even begun.
He wasn't reacting.
He was preparing.
"Bring me everything on Mosioh," Alan said, his voice now carrying a quiet edge that made everyone in the room straighten. "Communications, private channels, encrypted logs, financial records, I want his entire life laid bare."
Hours turned into night, and night into morning, and piece by piece, the illusion shattered.
Hidden accounts tied to off-world exchanges.
Encrypted transmissions sent beyond the edge of Terrian space.
Unregistered meetings.
And then, finally… the missing link.
A single transmission, fragmented, heavily encrypted, recovered from deep archive buffers—something that had been almost erased entirely.
The technicians struggled with it, breaking layer after layer until at last, the audio came through.
The room went still as Trevor's voice echoed faintly through the speakers.
"…the node will be exposed for exactly four minutes… after that, the defense grid recalibrates… don't miss your window…"
A second voice followed. Calm. Cold. Familiar in its tone, even if distorted by encryption.
"…you've done your part… the rest is ours…"
The recording cut.
Silence fell like a weight.
Alan closed his eyes for a brief moment, then opened them again, the last piece falling perfectly into place.
The container ship hadn't been transporting goods.
It had been transporting access.
Trevor had provided them with the exact node location, the exact timing, the exact blind spot in the catacomb defense system, and in return… whatever deal he had made with them had been enough to betray the entire empire.
"Seal all exits," Alan said quietly.
The command spread instantly.
"Lock down Mosioh estate. No communication in or out. I want him alive."
Guards moved. Fleets adjusted. Orders cascaded through the command chain like a tightening noose.
Alan turned away from the viewport, his expression unchanged, but his presence alone now felt heavier, colder, sharper.
"Prepare a warrant under imperial authority," he continued. "Charges: high treason, collusion with external hostile forces, endangerment of the empire."
The technician hesitated for a fraction of a second. "Sir… House Mosioh is one of the oldest noble lines—"
Alan looked at him.
That was enough.
"Not anymore," he said.
Hours later, the Mosioh estate was surrounded.
Trevor stood in the grand hall, dressed as always in refinement, but the confidence he once carried had cracks now, faint, but visible, as the doors burst open and imperial guards flooded in, weapons drawn.
He didn't run.
He didn't shout.
He simply smiled.
"So… he figured it out," Trevor said quietly, almost to himself.
The guards approached, weapons steady, and as they did, Trevor raised his hands slightly—not in surrender, but in acknowledgment.
"You're too late," he added, his voice calm, almost amused.
From the shadows behind the guards, Alan stepped forward.
"No," Alan replied, his tone colder than steel. "You are."
Trevor's eyes met his.
And for the first time… the smile faded.
Because in Alan's gaze there was no anger, no frustration—only certainty.
Every move Trevor had made…
Every lie he had told…
Every thread he thought he had hidden…
Had already been unraveled.
And now, there was nothing left for him to control.